


Ink-stained Mistakes

by Hightress



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Brienne is the Best, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Knight Brienne of Tarth, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 02:58:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19242433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hightress/pseuds/Hightress
Summary: "Brienne of Tarth," he whispered the name under his breath whenever he felt especially powerless or when Cersei's darkness became too much for him to handle and cherish unconditionally. "I wonder if I'll ever get to see you."(Or the Soulmate Au nobody asked for but I needed to write anyway)





	Ink-stained Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> Because nobody can tell me that they weren't soulmates.

 

In a place like Westeros, where clothes were thrown on the ground at every corner and sounds of orgies rang like an anthem down the streets, the idea that anything could be considered private seemed like a humorless joke. Yet such a thing existed in the form of permanent ink on every wrist. It didn't matter how frail or strong the arm might have been, the letters were there, bolded elegantly, forming a name.

And that name had enormous power. How could it not, when it showed the person that had the potential to find for the one they were chosen for at least a small amount of light in that fucked up world?

However, people were twisted, vicious double-edged swords armed with pretty smiles and empty words. They searched for weaknesses and, once a single one was found, it ended up being used against that person without any hesitation. It wasn't called a game for nothing - a constant chess between predators and prey, between each house and the others. There was no jury, no moves too dirty to be played, everything was there to be taken.

In their world, taking advantage of a name written on a wrist was a strategy that even a child could pull off. Anything precious could bring their doom and any source of brightness was considered a possible way of destruction.

That's why the letters were hidden. Covered with silk, burned, distorted in any way possible to hide their form from the rest of the predators. Nobody knew what the person standing beside them used to have marked on their skin. It was better that way, safer, smarter.

But Jaime, surrounded by lions his whole life, unmatched forces like Tyrion and his father, never claimed to be the smartest in the room. He chose to regard it with respect, to see it as a chance rather than a weapon. He refused to harm it, so he covered it under layers of metal, his armor guarding the whole body as well as the mark from any danger. Never forgot the name written, not even during battle - when he had to crawl between thousands and thousands of crimson lifeless corpses in his futile need to fight for an honor that was soon going to turn into dust - not even when his whole life became nothing more than a mere circle of disappointments and bitterness with a simple movement of his blade in the back of a king brought to madness, or when he turned the love he felt for his sister into something immoral.

As he undressed for bed in solitude, there wasn't a night when he didn't trace the letters with a finger, his face open and unguarded in a way he only could show when he was far from the rest of the world, away from their unfiltered words of no respect and the judgemental stares of lords from lands he didn't even care about.

"Brienne of Tarth," he whispered the name under his breath whenever he felt especially powerless or when Cersei's darkness became too much for him to handle and cherish unconditionally. "I wonder if I'll ever get to see you."

Those were words of longing, of hope in the form of a person he knew absolutely nothing about. He never heard of her and never dared to search too far. It was fear the one that stopped him from doing so - fear of Cersei's wrath and, most importantly, fear of running in circles for an unmeasurable amount of time for nothing more than a ghost.

There had been no way of knowing if the person imprinted on his skin had survived that many years. And Jaime was old compared to other knights, tired, broken all thanks to the unfairness and cruelty of their world. He knew just how easily a life could be lost. He also knew that a second of luck was almost as legendary as finding an open field with no corpses hidden beneath the ground.

Yet, he still hoped he'd get to meet her someday. To learn the face of the one a greater force considered to be his equal in every way. The one who was supposed to be his weakness as well as his awakening from that horrific state of numbness he had sunk into.

There were moments, however, when doubt clouded his judgment and those fantasies melted under the heaviness inside his chest.

His name was known across all kingdoms, spoken with disgust or anger, but mentioned on every road each passing day. She couldn't not have heard of him. She must've known, at least by reputation if nothing more. And she chose to stay silent, to ignore her words, to reject him and their fate and regard them with indifference. Nobody searched for him. Nobody but Cersei wanted him or cared about what he still had to offer.

So he fought. And bled. And killed. He lived for battle, lived to conquer and protect.

He built a family.

(One he could never acknowledge as his own.)

In the end, it had been his own family that brought them face to face.

He still remembered his first impression of her, the way he pitied her existence despite the chains keeping his arms behind his back. In his mind, he compared her to a bear - forceful, stiff, rough - a beast lacking any trace of elegance or finesse. She was no lady. And from the way she carried herself with a sword of that enormous size in her hands, it became clear that appearing as such was the furthest thing from her intentions.

(Sadly, it made sense. Only a beast-like woman would ever be fit for him.)

Oh, how he ignored her at first. Solely speaking to the one he deemed more important, that goddamn lady Stark - considering her unneeded. At least, until her appearance became too much not to comment on. More verbal abuse followed. Act after act, trying so fucking hard to seem mighty, royal, a true lion to the core. Stupidly brave he might've been at first, but that had been the only true face of his that he allowed the world to see.

He said his own name like a poem, chin held up and eyes still shining at the power it held. Or was supposed to hold, if his name hadn't been dragged through mud time and time again, just like his body was about to in a few moments. He was a  face of mockery. A clown dressed in filth that had once covered himself in gold.

She had held him by a leash, close to her, blue eyes always following his movements. He had dreaded it then and, months after, he dreaded it again, for so many different reasons. Might've not been as powerless as he had presented himself in the past, but with her in front of him, close enough to touch - to either harm or give affection if he felt like it, which hadn't been the case - he felt weak. Still bound, still at her mercy.

While covered in dirt, he couldn't stop his mouth from throwing insults at her, telling her the most horrible things he could manage. It had been his way of dealing with disappointment, of having that ideal image he had created during all those years thrown away and replaced with such an undesirable creature. She was supposed to be the only one able to take his mind away from home, from Cersei, but as he looked at Brienne's permanent frown, he felt even more desperate to go back to the capital, to have his sister's cold, thin arms wrapped around him.

Why did the Gods make him love such a hateful woman?

As he had learned, at least Brienne was true - honest to the core. He had called her names, joked of men, women and horses, seeing nothing worth desiring in her face, her eyes, her voice or figure. But he had been the fool.

Didn't her purity have more value than an incestuous act? He had known nothing but Cersei's body, never bedded another, never desired another. They had committed treason through their actions. They were the ones worth venomous words. Not her.

Never her.

How did he dare call he ugly? How did he dare call her boring? How blind had he been?

He had called himself strong when, compared to her in the aspects that truly mattered, he was not.

She stopped at nothing to do what was right. With her words and actions both. In a way, he saw her as a little girl - fragile, naive - trapped inside that terrific body. Of course, he had been wrong.

Only she could wield a sword and murder while making the act honorable. The first time he saw her fight, he understood. Not only the power she had, but the will, or the reason why she had thrown her own life to fighting. That's when he finally saw the first glimpse of the possibility that the universe hadn't been mistaken when they chose to force her name on his wrist.

As their swords clashed, Jaime smirked. It had been a while since he had fought against such a powerful opponent. He had missed the thrill of not knowing if he would end up victorious or not. The mark had been long forgotten, his thoughts now full of strategies, of searches for openings and patterns of her movements.

"We don't get to chose who we love."

Such a painful statement he had spoken out loud. So many truths in those few chosen words. It referred to many - him, her, Renly and so many others. Love wasn't a matter of choice. Neither was the name on their wrists.

Not that there had been love what he had felt in that moment. It would've been a disaster - too fast, too much of a change to make sense. But he did feel something. He just didn't know what to make of it.

Her blue eyes had been shining as well, brightening all her rigid features. A small smile bloomed at the corner of her mouth.

For a moment, he simply stared at her, noticing for the first time a certain gentleness in appearance, making him stop his footing. It was a good look on her - less threatening but just as powerful as ever.

His own stupidity got them captured. Got her almost raped and got him to lose his hand. By being too absorbed in taunting her, in getting her to burn with anger and passion and wrath, he ended up blinded to their surroundings.

The price had been high.

Everything turned to shit. He ended up beaten. Humiliated. Thrown into the dirt and treated like the worst type of scum. Never in his life had he looked less like a Lannister.

He had started to hope for death even before he lost his hand. After that, anger and self-pity turned him into a ghost. Despair became his second name and any chance of returning to Cersei got thrown away. Nothing had any meaning anymore. Nothing mattered.

But Brianne had been there, next to him, during this whole ugly transformation.

She saw the blade cut into his flesh - his marked flesh, his inked flesh. Saw him crumble, watched him give up and fall. She never extended her hand to help, not physically. She just shouted at him, calling him a coward indirectly as well as directly, and those words were enough to keep him standing. Her words were chosen harshly, meant to have a certain impact, which could not be denied.

He had cherished having her name on his arm for years - decades even. It pained him to lose it. However, that hand represented more than ink. More than a name. That arm had been such a crucial part of himself, of his existence, that the idea of losing that name had been nothing more a trivial thought.

But with her words echoing so clearly in his ears, her mouth forced into a less attractive shape, how could he deny her importance?  She built him back up. Turned the ghost into a human, gave a form to a lost soul. Gave him a direction, a reason to keep existing.

He couldn't deny the need he felt to protect her. He had done it before once through lies, but here he was, seeing more and more of her, hearing more of her, trusting more of her.

Living more and more with a desire to keep her close.

Long-forgotten were his initial thoughts. His insults. His barbaric words.

He had never admired a soul as profoundly as he was learning to admire Brienne's.

The first time he had seen her form, her naked one, he felt cornered. Attacked, despite the fact that at that moment he had been the one assaulting her through humorless jokes.

Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor. That's what he was, what he's been for years. He would've slayed any king for Cersei, broken any oath or vow, turned his honor - or what was left of it - into profanities.

Brienne, with her forceful words, gentle eyes and vibrant heart made him want to be more than that. So much more than that.

Challenges have always fascinated him. And what greater challenge could it be than a beastly woman that could fight any unlucky bastard that crossed her path with nothing but a dull sword, a bland armor and an honorable will? One that listened to the words of others and yet still had her eyes open, turning around every rumor she ever heard about him. His fighting, too slow. His crimes, understandable. His love for Cersei, still rotten but bordering on despair.

Brienne saw it all. Understood his reasons, his mistakes, and yet, still treated him with more respect than he ever thought possible.

Jaime had learned from a young age that he was never going to find someone that was going to be his equal. His family and titles denied that and even the ones that came from the same house as him made him see the clear differences. Intellectually, he was below them. Morally, he was considered a catastrophe - his principles considered too predictable.

But, with Brienne, the idea of equality became a reality.

And when he spoke, she listened quietly.

The title 'Kingslayer' left her vocabulary forever, being turned into his own name after he poured his heart to her in a moment of weakness. Might've been because 'Jaime' had become a synonym for 'broken', or maybe, just maybe, ended up as a sign of familiarity. 'Jaime' was not a monster, a heartless traitor, nor was he his sister's pet. He was a person, a human that's been hurt and hurt in return.

When she bid him farewell in the darkness of the Bolton' cage, he realized he didn't want to go. Didn't want to leave this creature, this woman behind. As she said his name - warmly, personally - his mind stopped.

If he still had a hand, he would've lowered his head and stared at his wrist, tracing with his eyes the letters on it.

The universe might've been right about some things for once. The connection he shared with her was undeniable. So were the inked letters he had seen when she stood up from the water abruptly, his eyes unable to focus on every single part of her that left him breathless.

Despite his need to see Cersei, he couldn't bring himself to leave Brienne behind. He came back, risked his skin and kept her close. They kept each other alive.

When he inevitably returned to the capital, it had been with Brienne by his side, her inked wrist close to his body, their hearts beating heavily for reasons unknown to them both.

Nerves, of course, but why exactly were they nervous? Had it been related to the possibility of seeing Cersei's wrath? Had it been fear of not being accepted back, now that he had become a cripple and she was linked to the enemy? The capital was a dangerous place. Unpredictable, just like its rulers. Nobody was safe inside its walls.

And yet... They were.

The Gods took pity on them. But couldn't keep them together.

Not yet.

They had to say goodbye once again, him unable to leave, to join her on her path of honor, while his rotten roots still kept him tied to his disastrous past. To his family. He couldn't give her the things he had wanted to offer -  he couldn't give himself, not as a whole (or, what was left of him anyway), so he gave her parts. Tiny, dispensable parts compared to what she truly deserved.

Not even at Riverrun had he been able to give her much more.

Her words hit him again and again - calling him words he never thought he'd hear again, not related to him. And she didn't do it to gain anything.

(Everyone kept playing a role to gain something. But not her. Ever.)

Little did she know that because of it, she had gained so much more than any of them had expected.

When they departed after that, their eyes following one another filled with longing and fear and respect, Oathkeeper gripped tightly in her strong hands, he thought that would be the last image of her he'd ever see.

He could only hope that the valyrian steel of the sword, twin to his, will never fail her. That it will never disappoint and never break in pieces.  And that it would represent something neither of them was ready to face.

He went back to his life. Back to Cersei. Back to being a disgrace and back to his self-hatred. With his hand gone, he didn't even have the option to steal a hope-filled look at the marked skin of his wrist. Her name was gone, its presence lost forever.

But her appearances in dreams were not. Neither were they in his daily thoughts. It was as if she stayed as a mark, but one invisible, inside his skull, one the world would never learn about. Will never take advantage of.  
   
Cersei still had her claws deep into his flesh. Deep into his heart, his mind, his veins. His soul, however, had been borrowed by Brienne. Only with her did he truly trust his values. Only with her, because of her, he could almost pretend he was better. That he was good. That he wasn't as hateful as he had grown to learn he was.

Brienne should've been happy with that part of his. She shouldn't have returned to him, shouted at him words that made sense, words that shook him to the core.

Should've left his loyalty to his family alone.

Of course she didn't. Of course she had to turn his entire world upside down once more within less than a minute, making him feel confusion, dread, regret, fear, hope, powerlessness and so much more.

She definitely shouldn't have reminded him that she still believed he was a good man. (Even if he wasn't.)

But he listened and then acted. With a mind clearer than ever and a hearting beating in a maddening rhytm, he rejected his past, the cruelty and toxicity. He rejected Cersei, the capital, money, titles and everything that kept him trapped his entire life.

He rode north. He rode to do what was right, to fulfill an oath he had made to help protect their land.

(And the land wasn't the only thing he wanted to protect. Not that 'she' ever needed his protection when it came to combat.) 

Her words saved him once again once he reached the Starks. Simple words, short, concise, full of meaning. They turned him from a traitor to a warrior, then a guest. Then turned him from an empty man to one full of fears, of regrets and tiny hopes.

One that didn't need a shallow mark on his wrist to tell him that he's been an idiot. Or to tell him what to feel.

It hadn't been alcohol what finally brought him to her. Nor had it been the euphoria of a winning battle.

No.

There had been mud, blood, screams, agony and despair. There had been truth, respect, equality and care. There had been memories, months together and apart.

And maybe... Maybe even love - a word too powerful still. Not fitting perfectly what they had.

When his lips touched hers, he knew. Everything he had ever done, had ever represented, had led him to this. To this simple gesture.

It had been as natural as breathing. So natural, so special that when his hand touched her cheek to hold her even closer, he didn't feel like he was just holding a body, but a soul as well.

A beautiful soul. More incredible than any other he had ever encountered.

That sickening emotion he had felt for Cersei was fading. He had loved her body, her strategies, her wrath when it came to protecting their family, even her cruelty. But her soul never rang to Jaime's.

Never connected them, not truly, not completely.

She had taught him to devour and be devoured in return. Brienne... She taught him to open his eyes, his heart, his soul and fight. Fight to exist, to love, to be remembered.

He hoped he taught her something as well. Something valuable.

He wanted to give her everything - more than a title. A title she has been worthy of for years before she met him. A title that should've been hers to begin with.

What he had given her instead had been temporary happiness. A short-lived paradise of warmth and comfort, that definitely left a bitter taste in her mouth and an ache he'd never be able to treat.

It hadn't been about the fight for the capital, not really. The reason had been selfish - probably the most selfish thing he had ever done.

He blamed the monster inside of him.

Brienne had made him want to be more than an oathbreaker. Made him want to be better, stronger, kinder, wiser. More righteous, like she was.

He wanted to be worthy of her. Worthy of having his name on her wrist.

(He had seen it every night for weeks. Made him happy at first - so happy he thought he might explode - only to make him close his eyes with sorrow and regret in the last few moments.)

But... He wasn't worthy. The hatred he felt deep inside his chest never wavered, never left him or lost its intensity. Quite the opposite.

With Brienne so close, representing everything he had never known he wanted, nor needed, his self-loathing grew.

Despite the way she viewed him and reminded him constantly of, he knew better. A few moments of happiness and a few good deeds couldn't erase decades of monstrosities.

He couldn't bear to live in her light. Couldn't bear to be reminded every living second how disgusting he was.

He was indeed hateful. And the Gods had been foolish enough to assume that someone like him could ever fit next to someone as brilliant as Brienne of Tarth.

She wouldn't have let him go. Not if they had a few more moments to discuss, to have her powerful words prove him wrong.

It wouldn't have been the first time, right?

So he fled like a coward. Like a heartless monster. Like a fraud.

Like a disappointment.

He didn't deserve love. What he deserved, instead, were cold, thin, cruel hands and an eternity of regrets.

He was going to get just that. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can tell I'm still bitter by the ending and tried to make sense of it as much as possible. This story had been in my drafts for ages - two years even - but due to the newest season, it had to be finished. 
> 
> Any comment or thought would be greatly appreciated! Kudos as well.  
> If you wanna chat and fangirl over those two sweethearts, you can find me on Tumblr as @hightress


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